The Price of War - Chapter Three

[morethanhonour]

More Than Honour
Book One: The Price of War
Chapter Three

The wardroom provided a very different atmosphere than the midshipman’s berth, Edward quickly learned. The large table was not terribly greater in size than the one the midshipmen shared, but it occupied by three lieutenants, the sailing master, and the surgeon. The occasional addition of the surgeon’s mate made six men, rather than the six midshipmen and two master’s mates. The true door afforded a measure of privacy, whereas the berth of the midshipmen opened onto the rest of the gun deck. The noise elsewhere was barely muffled, but the slight increase of the quiet made it easier for Edward to bow over his journal and books of seamanship with the sailing master to study.

“You’ve a good head on your shoulders,” Booth, the sailing master, said as he checked the figures Edward scrawled for purpose of navigation. He took a particular interest in these studies, as the education of his mates and the midshipmen was his duty.

“They could ask me anything.”

“They could.”

“Three months.” Edward turned pages in his book on seamanship. “There’s so much to remember.”

Booth chuckled. “And it’s different there In battle, you have others giving orders, and you may guess your best move based on them. You think better, too, when you must act. Standing in front of three captains, being questioned.” He laughed gently. “I’ve known a great many boys with brains enough, either learned into them or born there, who lost their nerve before that lot. Not that you’ve need to worry much, Mister Burr. Keep a level head, and you will be a proper lieutenant by the time they’re done.”

Edward managed to smile, trying to look more confident than he felt. “Thank you, sir.”

“Besides, even if you fail, Caldwell will have you back before ‘em in six months.” Ben grinned, the words offered in jest.

“Life as a mid after tasting the luxury that is the position of acting-lieutenant,” Booth joined. “A bitter tonic for a man like our Mister Burr.”

“I shall endeavour not to disappoint you gentlemen, then.” Despite their teasing, Edward smiled.

The frivolity of the mood broke when Mader entered. His expression was twisted, similiar to that of a boy Edward had known who had, on challenge from his fellows, drank a whole lime’s juice at once. The three men present were careful not to catch his eye, lest his obvious temper be unleashed upon them.

“Where the Devil is Moore? Bloody man can’t be found when he is wanted.” He slammed his hand on the table. He meant the gesture to convey the weight of his words and the importance of his rank as second-in-command of the ship, but Edward thought the action reminiscent of a child having a fit to get his way from a too-lenient parent.

Ben, second to Mader in standing, dared to answer him. “He may be reporting to the captain, sir.”

“Damn him,” Mader grumbled. He regarded them all with a lofty look. “His mate’s in a black temper today, seems to think himself master of the sick bay and its supplies.” As he departed, a threat issued from him, mingled with colourful cursing. “I’ll see him flogged for speaking to me like that. Damn him, I will.”

“What do you suppose?” Booth ventured once the first lieutenant was, to anyone’s best guess, safely removed beyond earshot.

“Probably,” Ben said, the gossip leaving him easily, “wanted at the surgeon’s stock of brandy. Moore don’t care none, no, but Clay’s another matter.”

“Do you think he’ll call it insubordination?” Edward watched the door, half waiting for Mader to burst in and accuse them all of the same.

“God willing, no,” Booth answered, his voice several tones lower.

God was not willing.

Sunday found the whole of the crew assembled, and the Articles of War-- the document far more powerful to those in the Royal Navy than even the Bible-- read in full. One man stood apart from the others, dressed in only trousers, well-shined shoes, and his cleanest white shirt. Clay watched the face of the now-impenetrable Captain Caldwell as he read the final passage.

“Article Thirty-Six: All other crimes not capital committed by any person or persons in the fleet, which are not mentioned in this act, or for which no punishment is hereby directed to be inflicted, shall be punished by the laws and customs in such cases used at sea.” He regarded Clay on the main deck from where he stood on the quarterdeck. His first lieutenant stood to his right, while the other two were at his left. “Joseph Clay, you are charged with insubordination. Have you anything to say in your defence?”

‘Quite a lot,’ his eyes said, or so Edward thought. “No, sir,” the man said.

“Have his officers anything to say on his behalf?”

Only Mader could have spoken. A charge brought by the first lieutenant could be challenged by no one less. It was obvious Mader would not speak, and the captain suffered the deafening silence for only a few moments.

“Very well, then.”

“Seize him up,” Mader called. Only an idiot or a deaf man, Edward thought, could miss the relish in his voice.

The bosun’s mates stepped forward. Clay showed no resistance to their hands, pulling his shirt over his head and taking him to the grating stood for this purpose. One, less discreet than he thought himself, obviously whispered to Clay, who replied in kind. Edward imagined it to be an apology and granted pardon. Clay’s hands were tied to the grating, his unblemished white back presented to the bosun, who stepped forward with his velvet bag. Quiet a man as he was, Church’s rank guaranteed him the hatred of at least a handful of the crew at any given time. He felt their dislike keenly now as he drew his rope cat of nine tails from its bag, aware of the position Clay held as a favourite among the men.

A lesser man might have shirked from his duty, Edward considered with full sympathy. Moore was surgeon by the muster book, but there was not a hand on board Virtue who would, in time of medical need, prefer Moore to Clay. The mate’s tongue might be sharp and his demeanour a combination of choleric and melancholic, but his hands were always gentle and, vastly more important to the well-being of the crew, steady. He was also the son of a physician and, with a year or two away from the Navy for study, would be one as well. To see him at the grating on a charge they could all guess was greatly exaggerated left them ill at ease. Under a less popular captain, Edward felt sure, this incident would plant seeds of bitterness and discontent. Captain Caldwell, thankfully, had the strength of personality to see no such thing happen.

“A half dozen,” the captain announced.

Merciful. The word seemed to echo about the deck without anyone having said it. Edward’s muscles relaxed as the tension in the air seemed to slacken. The bosun brough his charge across Clay’s back six times, with Mader calling every strike.He delighted in the blows, but Edward knew he felt a sharp disappointment in not seeing the full dozen administered. Clay clenched his teeth and balled his fists. He did not cry out, despite the blood that streaked his back by the time Mader called the order for his restraints to be cut. His palms bled too, torn into by his nails from the pain of the cat. The captain dismissed his hands and went below. Then two bosun’s mates came forward. Each took one of Clay’s arms and led him down, ignoring the glare Mader afforded them.

“Bastard didn’t get what he deserved,” Mader muttered.

Ben glanced at Edward and checked the acting-lieutenant’s expression with a glance. Edward bit back the words he only just realized were on the tip of his tongue. Ben spoke with measured calm, “He received the captain’s sentence, sir.” The last word came after a notable pause, yet Ben’s tone allowed for no similar charge as the one Clay had faced to be levied upon him.

“Mind yourself, Mister Peck,” Mader replied. He leveled a cold gaze on Ben, which the second lieutenant met with a look just shy of insolence.

“Of course, sir.”

“And you, Mister Burr.” Edward looked up, doing all he could to school his expression into neutral acknowledgement of a superior officer. “You ought to decide quickly how far you wish your career to rise. Your taste in friends to this point does not bode well for you.”

Edward entertained the malicious thought of remarking on Mader’s service. Eighteen years a lieutenant, six years a midshipman, two failed exams between the latter rank and the former, no prayer of promotion to commander at all, and Edward had never heard him speak of anyone in a manner one might remotely consider friendly. Before he could speak, though, Edward’s sense caught up with his ire. “Yes, sir.”

Mader quit the quarterdeck, and Edward breathed a sigh. Ben caught his eye, and their sentiments passed from one to the other easily. When Ben smiled, Edward felt he could too. He nodded before leaving the quarterdeck to Ben, who had the current watch. Edward took the companionway down to the gun deck with care to be both quiet and quick. Mader was nowhere to be seen, so Edward continued down to the berth deck.

“Good lad.” It was Church he heard speak. The words were followed by a soft, soothing sound from Church while another man groaned. Edward followed the sound. “I’ve seen other men what never had the cat bite ‘em before scream like they as bein’ killed. Not a peep out of you, and don’t think we weren’t expecting it.” The man with him-- Clay, obviously-- gasped. “You’ll think ol’ Church don’t know much, and I suppose I don’t, not what compared to your books, but I know this: nothing better for marks like that than some vinegar on brown paper. Stings like the Devil but helps in the end.”

Clay managed to speak, even through the quiet cry he let out. “Thank you, Mister Church.” Edward went unnoticed, but he watched the aging Church place another piece of soaked paper on Clay’s back. Clay was curled in his hammock on his side, back once more to the bosun, this time under his ministrations rather than his rope. He flinched when the treatment met his raw flesh.

“None of that now. ‘Church’ ought to answer just fine. Me and the lads, see-- we’re awful fond of you. Carson, you dressed a wound what could have been real bad for him. Grateful, you know. Wouldn’t want no hard feelings.”

“None from me, Church, certainly,” Clay replied. He hissed as the final piece of paper was applied. “You did your duty, nothing more.”

“Good of you to say so,” Church answered. He put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder lightly and gave two soft pats before he rose from his post by the hammock. He caught sight of Edward and saluted. “Sir.”

“Sir?”

“Me, Clay. No-- no. Stay down, man.” Edward moved forward. There was no need to hang back when he had been seen. “I wanted to make certain you were being seen to.”

Clay, smartly, did not try to roll over to look at him. “I am, sir. Mister Church has done a wonder for my back.” Church had begun, even now, to slink away, disappear back to his station. Edward let him go without a word, merely nodding to him, before he took another step forward to stand in the bosun’s place beside the hammock.

“What did you say to Mader?”

“Called him a drunk and an idiot.” The pain in his back, Edward was sure Clay’s reasoning went, was price paid for those words; he had no cause to deny them now. “If Moore wants to help him keep his head useless, that’s his place. I won’t be party to it, though. The man’s spirit ration is all he needs, probably more than. I won’t give him brandy for a pain that doesn’t exist.”

Edward smiled to himself. There was nothing wrong, he decided, with letting the man speak freely. After a flogging, a man’s tongue might be too loose. But the pain would ebb and teach him to better mind himself in the future.